


Blood To Paint Your Lips

by neverminetohold



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gang Rape, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Explicit, Rape/Non-con References, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing stirs in the stale air of his little prison cell, the stark light doesn't change, but Clint knows he is no longer alone. He can feel him, long before he catches his reflection in the security cameras lens, like insects crawling underneath his skin, scratching him raw from the inside...</p>
<p>Disclaimer: The Avengers belong to Marvel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood To Paint Your Lips

The blood pools in his mouth behind the gag and he has no choice but to swallow it. Clint wonders how much more he can take before his roiling stomach will empty itself with a violent lurch, making him suffocate on his own vomit.  
  
The body his thoughts are attached to, that empty shell of throbbing pain he ignores with a lifetimes experience, twitches again. It's one of the things he can't control and that list is too long already.  
  
What a way to go would that be, after surviving hours of torture and the tender attention of the disgusting creeps Doom hired who thought that he was the main course on the menu.  
  
He can take that – the taunts, the burns, the cuts, the dirty hands touching him – but the drugs and magic twisting him into something pliable, a moaning, writhing mess of mindless lust... it threatens to be too much. No simple torture could hope to achieve that and death was never an issue, but that the thought of fighting back _itself_ is taken from him...  
  
Nothing stirs in the stale air of his little prison cell, the stark light doesn't change, but Clint knows he is no longer alone. He can feel him, long before he catches his reflection in the security cameras lens, like insects crawling underneath his skin, scratching him raw from the inside.  
  
Clint inhales blood and dust and mold, trying to pull his fractured wits together for the looming confrontation. But what he wants is to tear his skin away and pull the feeling out. He wants to take hot showers to burn the invisible filth from his skin.  
  
Natasha caught him doing just that, having entered the man's shower stalls at HQ as if she owned the place. Clint hadn't believed for a second that she was buying his flimsy excuse and the next meeting with that oily bastard of a shrink had proven him right.  
  
Like back then, he can only lie down and take it.  
  
Loki must be reading his thoughts; his laughter echoes through the cell and his eyes on the cameras lens dance with mirth. His fractured reflection flows over every metallic surface nearby until the mage is just there, towering over Clint's bound body, clad in his green-golden armor.  
  
It is his smell, his closeness exuding raw magic – so different from Dooms and yet alike – that makes Clint's thoughts fray and his spent prick trying valiantly to rise. It is only now that Clint learns how it truly feels to burn with shame, but, like Doom loved to point out: he's only human.  
  
However, Loki doesn't laugh or comment. His pale face is an inscrutable mask as his gaze roams over Clint, so intent he must be counting every single drop of sweat and cum on him.  
  
Loki folds himself down to sit cross-legged besides Clint. He wants to shift away but can't, as cold fingers touch the rag of cloth in his mouth.  
  
“I expect you to keep quiet,” Loki says before he pulls.  
  
It feels as if Clint's lips are ripped away, glued to the gag with his own dried blood, but then it is gone and he spits a mouthful of red liquid in the god's direction. He misses him, feels the trickle down his own chin, but he can breathe freely now, which lessens the sting of failing.  
  
“W- what -”  
  
“Quiet,” Loki repeats. His gaze shifts, perhaps to where guards should have appeared by now, but nobody is making rounds and the camera seems useless.  
  
His attention is back on Clint, and his hand follows the length of his body, hovering an inch over the marred skin. Clint can feel something twist and curl inside himself and then it trails after Loki's hand like an obedient puppy.  
  
“And how did this magic end up in your cells?” Loki asked with a razor-thin smirk, uttering a questioning 'mhm'. “Want me to tell you, Agent Barton?”  
  
Clint shudders, remembering the press of hard flesh against his lips, how it forced its way past and then the jet of hot, salty liquid burning down his working throat. He growls like a cornered animal, too weak to strike the smirk from Loki's face.  
  
“A kiss to set you free.” Loki breathes the words into his ear.  
  
“Forget it,” Clint grounds out, but his body betrays him with a shiver.  
  
The humiliation of not knowing whether his body reacts in revulsion or excitement is acid in Clint's veins. Because he remembers, he dreams of it, Loki bent over him, the heady smell of sweat and arousal, the itching residue on his stomach the morning after.  
  
“How well you know that you are mine, Agent Barton.”  
  
It sounds less like praise than absolute truth and Clint can't breathe, not with the sick almost-knowledge that Loki might be able to bring him to heel with a word or glance alone, as if the past six months amount to nothing. As if the freedom, the life he reclaimed for himself, are a mere illusion.  
  
Loki makes the decision for him: a hand is in Clint's hair, holding him in place as the Asgardian crushes their lips together. His tongue conquers clenched teeth with no real resistance, filling Clint's mouth with icy cold that rushes down his throat until it fills his whole body, chasing the hot rush of Doom's away.  
  
A string of saliva connects them a moment longer, a fragile thread hanging between them, before Clint shatters it with a breath and cough, wishing he could retch the magic out of his system.  
  
Loki's smile is terrifying but all he does is rise to his feet with mocking grace. Snapping his fingers is all it takes to free Clint of his shackles and suddenly he is warm again, his clothes having magically appeared to cover his nakedness.  
  
“I trust you will find this useful.”  
  
Clint has just managed to unfurl and get up on his knees, when his bow and quiver enter the small field of vision his bend head allows. He doesn't think, only takes the offered weapon.  
  
The door clicks and opens.  
  
“Five minutes, to walk as a ghost does,” Loki says cryptically and vanishes in a cloud of green-black smoke.  
  
Clint doesn't think, doesn't wonder if he can even manage to walk, he gets up and soon, screams echo through Doom's base and red footprints mark the way a ghost took from a prison cell towards the only exit.  
  
Hidden in the darkness, Loki observes. His mocking smile stretches into infinity, his lips painted red with Clint's blood and his tongue flicks out to chase the liquid. It tastes like the sweetest of Idun's apples.  
  
“'Angels and demons are bound in His schemes, but man's will rides on hawk's wings, for it is free',” Loki quotes and licks his fingers clean. “Savor the illusion, Clint Barton, until I come for you and you kneel in welcome before me.”  
  
 _Soon._  
  
  
End


End file.
